


The Naughty Step

by Bottlegreen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, British school corporal punishment, Corporal Punishment, Forced Exhibitionism, Humiliation, M/M, Over the Knee, Public Humiliation, Spanking, Student Sherlock, Teacher John Watson, Unresolved Sexual Tension, public spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:18:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bottlegreen/pseuds/Bottlegreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“The older boys can get a bit cocky sometimes. Half an hour on the naughty step does them the world of good.”</i> </p><p>Dr Watson's warning had been quite clear, but Sherlock hadn't realised that the boys were spanked beforehand. And surely - at eighteen - he was too old for such a punishment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Naughty Step

This must be a Biology lab, Sherlock thought. The room was fairly standard, but there was an articulated skeleton which looked more realistic than most and the posters on the walls were up to date and depicted some interestingly grizzly tropical diseases in addition to the usual diagrams of food groups and ecological cycles.

He stepped inside. The skeleton was almost certainly real. Female, age of death late fifties to late sixties, some rheumatoid arthritis in the fingers. He examined them for a while then looked around the rest of the room. A raised dais caught his eye. He hadn’t noticed it at first. It was tucked in the corner between the blackboard and the door, about a foot high and three foot square. Its function wasn’t immediately apparent- a stand for some absent apparatus, perhaps. There were no obvious markings to indicate its use, just a few superficial scuff marks on the surface. He was bent over inspecting them when a voice from the doorway interrupted him.

“Hello?” it said.

Sherlock looked up. A short man with neatly cut sandy hair stood just inside the door. He held a sheaf of photocopies in one hand and was wearing fawn coloured trousers, a pale blue shirt and a faintly quizzical expression.

“Hello,” said Sherlock, uncertain if this were one of the masters. His clothing was more casual than Sherlock was used to, and while his face was lined, he seemed quite young compared to the rest of the staff.

“Can I help?” the stranger said.

“I was just looking around. My mother’s speaking with the Headmaster; they told me I could take a look at the facilities.”

“Oh right. Well this is my class room,” the stranger said. He illustrated the point by dropping his pile of papers onto the front desk. “Anything you want to know in particular?”

“Is that a real skeleton?”

“Yes it is. I brought her with me when I came here.”

“And are those your posters?” He pointed to the infectious diseases.

“Yes, they are.”

Sherlock nodded; pleased his hunch had proved right. He indicated the dais. “And what’s that for?”

“That? That’s the naughty step.”

He must have misheard. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s the naughty step. It’s where we put the boys when they’ve been naughty,” he expanded in response to Sherlock’s look of query, as though that would explain things.

Sherlock stared, wondering if he was having his leg pulled. “Who does?”

The stranger cocked his head. “Who does what?

“Who puts the boys on the naughty step?”

“Oh,” The question seemed to amuse him. “Well, me mostly.”

He was standing with his feet shoulder-width apart and his hands clasped loosely behind his back. It was a stance born out of force of habit. Ex-military, Sherlock deduced distractedly, that would explain the haircut. The majority of his attention, however, was elsewhere. “What – even the sixth formers?”

“Oh, especially the sixth formers. They can get a bit cocky sometimes. Some time out on the naughty step does them the world of good.” He grinned at Sherlock’s consternation, and held out his hand. “Dr John Watson. Head of biology.”

Sherlock shook hands, cautiously. He wondered if he’d be in Dr Watson’s class. On the one hand, he seemed more interesting than the average school master. On the other hand, his sense of humour was more than a little offbeat.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I’m new this term.”

“Thought so,” said Dr Watson. His handshake was as firm and brisk as the rest of him. “I didn’t think I recognised your face. Day boy or boarder?”

“Boarder.”

“Which house?”

“Kilburn.”

“Oh, then you’ll be one of mine.”

Sherlock felt his stomach do a strange flip. “Well, I hope I won’t be spending any time on your,” he couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘naughty,’ it was so childish, “er, step.”

Dr Watson stared at him thoughtfully, serious once more. “I hope not too,” he said. “But really, that’s down to you. Are you cocky, Holmes?”

To Sherlock’s surprise he felt himself blush -a slow wave of heat that started at his chest and rolled up his neck until even his ears were glowing. Irritatingly, knowing he was doing it only made him blush harder. It was difficult to pinpoint the cause. Perhaps something about Dr Watson’s expression – unsmiling and intense - the unspoken but definite implication that he was more than capable of putting Sherlock on the naughty step if he thought he deserved it. Flustered, he dropped his gaze.

“I should go and find my mother,” he said. “She’ll be finished by now.”

“All right,” said Dr Watson. “Off you go then. See you soon.”

 

* * *

 

Odd though this conversation was, the memory was soon suppressed by the whirl of activity that came with registration, induction and orientation at a new school. Sherlock only recollected it the following evening, when he was unpacking his trunk and settling in to his new room. A couple of boys lounged in the doorway, assessing the new arrival.

“Which classes are you in?” said one. He was a tall, stringy fellow with a belligerent air. Sherlock could tell already that he was going to be difficult, but Mycroft had bet him fifty pounds that he couldn’t stay out of trouble until Whitsun, and he was determined to win the money: there was a second-hand microscope he’d had his eye on for months. So, instead of suggesting this nosy newcomer mind his own business, he pulled his timetable from a blazer pocket and passed it over for inspection, before continuing to unpack his books. “Maths, further maths, biology, physics... How many subjects are you taking?”

“Just the four,” said Sherlock. “I sat chemistry last year.”

The interloper shot him a suspicious look. “Carter for maths and further maths,” he read. “Oh, unlucky - he’s a proper bastard.”

“He’s not that bad, Monroe, as long as you actually do some work,” said Sherlock’s dorm mate. He was a rotund, cheerful young man who had introduced himself as Trevor. He had the heavy breathing and drooping eyelids of a chronic snorer, but he seemed agreeable enough.

“Major Carmichael for physics,” Monroe continued. “He’s crap. Turns up half cut.”

Trevor didn’t comment, from which Sherlock inferred this was probably not far wrong. He sighed inwardly; it wasn’t the first time he’d had to teach himself.

“And Dr Watson for Biology. You’ll be with me for that.”

“Oh, lovely,” said Sherlock smoothly. Trevor grinned and Sherlock found himself warning to his new acquaintance, adenoidal or not.

“You don’t want to get on the wrong side of Dr Watson,” Monroe continued with relish. “He’s a spanker.”

Sherlock paused, a volume of Cross and Tapper forgotten in his hand. “He’s a what?”

“A spanker. Likes nothing better than putting a boy over his knee and giving him what for. _Splat, splat, splat_.” Monroe mimed the action of a descending hand with gusto. “And he doesn’t care who sees.”

“You’re ragging me,” said Sherlock. He was a veteran of several public schools and he’d never heard of anything of the sort.

“No, I’m not!” said Monroe affronted. He turned to his companion. “He got Sai last term, didn’t he, Sai?”

Sai looked as though he wanted the ground to swallow him up at the memory. “Yes,” he admitted. “But it was that or the cane, so…”

“Trousers down and everything,” said Monroe. “And that wasn’t the worst of it-”

“Haven’t you got somewhere to be, Monroe?” said Trevor with heavy patience, “some prep to be doing, or something?”

Monroe shrugged. “Not really.”

“Yeah, we have,” said Sai, “Come on. We’ve got that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing. Come _on_ ,” said Sai, and dragged Monroe down the corridor before further details of his punishment could be made public.

“My timetable?” Sherlock called after them.

“Here you go.” Monroe wadded it up and threw it towards him.

“He’s a dick,” said Trevor, once they were alone.

“Yes,” Sherlock said absently, smoothing out the paper. Boys like Monroe were two-a-penny in his experience. What he’d just said, though, was peculiar. “He _was_ joking, I assume? About the-” he swallowed, the word made him feel light-headed, “the spanking? They don’t actually do that here, do they? Dr Watson doesn’t do that?”

“I don’t have classes with him.”

It wasn’t a no. “So he does?”

Trevor puffed out his cheeks and flopped onto his bed. “Well….” he said in the temporising tones of one destined for a career at the bar.

“My God.” This hadn’t been mentioned in the induction. He felt certain his mother would have had something to say about it if it had. The cane had been tactfully alluded to as a method of last resort, wielded by the Head in the privacy of his own study, but nothing about other, more public, methods of corporal punishment.

“Some masters do,” Trevor admitted, “as an alternative to being sent to the Head. Trousers down and a quick whacking - no mark on your record, no letter home.”

“But… in class?”

“That’s the downside. It’s done there and then.”

Sherlock felt his face heat. He could picture the scene with almost hallucinatory clarity. Some unfortunate boy pinned face first over Dr Watson’s lap. His trousers around his knees. Held in place while a hard palm slapped down across his tender cheeks. Spanked  to boiling point in front of a roomful of his leering, jostling classmates. How horrible. How humiliating. How perverse. His buttocks clenched in embarrassment at the mere thought and a powerful electric jolt shot down his spine.

“And nobody objects?” he said, his voice thin and reedy in his ears.

Trevor shrugged philosophically. “Like Sai said, it’s better than the cane.”

 

* * *

 

As Sherlock had guessed, Monroe had taken exception to him, and he made no attempt to hide his dislike over the weeks that followed. Matters were not helped by Sherlock’s habit of being first to answer every question in class, which Monroe took as a personal slight. Why, Sherlock wasn’t sure, since he was patently incapable of answering them himself. He was quite used to making enemies and for the most part another wouldn’t have bothered him, but when Monroe was unable to rile Sherlock he busied himself bating Trevor, which was a more serious concern. Trevor was inoffensive, irredeemably good natured, and the closest Sherlock had ever come to having a school friend. Threats were made, blows were traded and it was only a matter of time before the matter came to a head.

The final incident occurred on the Friday morning at the end of Sherlock’s third week. It was the start of double Biology and Monroe had overstepped the mark by throwing a chair in Sherlock’s direction while his back was turned. Unprovoked violence could not be allowed to pass unpunished. Sherlock had restrained him in a headlock and was, he thought, exercising considerable personal restraint by not just throwing him out of the window. The class formed a circle around them as they scuffled, uncertain where their loyalties lay.

“Kick him in the nads,” someone urged. It wasn’t clear which of them he was advising.

No one noticed Dr Watson until he spoke. His voice wasn’t loud but it sliced through the din like a hot knife through butter.

“What’s going on here?”

There was a general stampede as the watching boys scrambled to disassociate themselves from the scene of the crime. Sherlock and Monroe were left alone in the centre of the room, frozen in an incriminating tableau of violence. After a second Sherlock released the headlock and they both stepped quickly apart. Dr Watson stared at them without speaking. He no longer appeared in the slightest bit affable and even Sherlock quailed under the weight of his glance.

“Monroe,” Watson said eventually, “what have I told you?” Monroe muttered something inaudible. “Head’s office, then. Now.” He waited until Monroe had slunk from the room then turned his attention to Sherlock. “Holmes, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, somewhat irked that Dr Watson hadn’t remembered, “sir,” he added, a fraction of a second too late.

Dr Watson’s brows dipped lower. “Fighting is strictly forbidden, Holmes. You can join Monroe. Or I can deal with you here and now, and we'll say nothing more about it.”

Sherlock shook his head fretfully. Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins and it was hard to think. If he went to the Head, his mother was bound to hear of it and he’d promised her this time he’d stay out of trouble. And then there was Mycroft and his fifty pounds – he was bound to be more than usually insufferable if he heard Sherlock had been caned. But if he stayed…Monroe’s words echoed through his mind. _Splat, splat, splat_. It was too horrible to think about.

“What if-” he began, but Dr Watson was in no mood for negotiation.

“No ifs, not buts. You can go to the Head, or we sort this out here. Do you understand what that means?”

He nodded. It meant a spanking – ridiculous, childish punishment - but it was that or the cane. It seemed he had no choice. It was, as Trevor had said, the lesser of two evils. Reluctantly he muttered his assent.

“Didn’t hear that,” said Dr Watson. “Spanking or caning? What’s it to be?”

He’d hoped he could avoid saying the word. “Spanking, sir,” he whispered, though paper-dry lips.

The class room was utterly silent, as if the watching boys were holding their breath. Dr Watson picked up his chair and positioned it at the front of the room. “Let’s get it over with. Blazer off and stand by my chair.”

Sherlock shook off his jacket and dropped it onto a spare desk, painfully aware of the eyes of the class following his every move. The only bright spot was that Trevor wasn’t here to witness his humiliation. When he was done, he stood where he’d been told. He had no desire to stretch out his ordeal longer than necessary. Dr Watson sat heavily and fixed Sherlock with an unblinking stare.

“Trousers down.”

There was a strange heavy, buzzing in Sherlock's head. He obeyed, as if in a trance, unbuttoning the waistband of his thick school flannels and unzipping the fly. They fell in soft heavy folds to his knees. The revealed skin of his thighs was pale and goose-bumped. Dr Watson took him by the arm and guided Sherlock across his lap. It was a surprisingly long way down. When he landed he could feel the doctor’s thighs pushed hard against his belly. Short but solid. His shirt tails were lifted and folded out of the way, then a hand rested on the small of his back just above the curve of his behind. His underwear was quite brief, a pair of blue trunks cut high on the thigh. Far nicer, he had thought, complacently, than the horrible saggy boxer shorts that many of the boys seemed to favour. Now though, he was only too aware of how skimpy they were, how tight; what little protection they would provide him from Dr Watson’s descending hand.

Brief or not however, turned out to be irrelevant. A hand tugged at his waistband and, before he could react, Dr Watson had slipped two fingers inside the fabric and pulled them down. With two firm tugs Sherlock’s underwear ended up around his knees, his bottom quite bare. He gave a cry of protest, one hand automatically shooting back to cover himself. It was caught before it could land, Dr Watson pinning it to the base of his spine with an ease born out of long practice.

“Less of that,” he said, “I've seen a boy’s bottom before, you know.”

For once Sherlock didn’t have a smart reply. The whole situation was unremittingly horrible. Surely he must be dreaming. It was incredible that he - Sherlock Holmes, eighteen years old - could actually... could actually have his underwear taken down and be spanked bare-bottomed while the whole class watched. But the evidence of his senses was undeniable. Every sensation seemed heightened. The cloying scent of synthetic lemon floor polish. The cool air stirring the fine hairs on his thighs, and wafting over the exposed skin of his backside. The cotton twill of Dr Watson’s trousers tickling his stomach. The tiny creaks and scuffles of chair legs as his classmates waited, transfixed.

There was a horrible pause during which nothing happened at all. Then, without warning, the doctor’s hand dropped, delivering a series of sharp stinging smacks across Sherlock’s bare behind. Each smack landed squarely, with a loud fleshy clap that echoed around the classroom. They sounded out a rhythmic percussion and not an inch of his bottom was spared the beat. There were smacks to his right cheek and smacks to his left, each one shook his flesh and left his buttocks hotter and more tender than before. There was a barrage of searing smacks to his haunches and the soft flesh enfolded between bottom and thigh, which made him gasp and wince. And there was a peppering of smacks to the tops of his legs. Each smack was layered on top of the last, and each one left behind a stinging heat that deepened and intensified as the spanking continued.

To Sherlock, who had never been spanked before, let alone on his bare bottom in front of an audience, the experience was awful beyond his wildest imaginings. The pain was bad enough but far worse was the disgrace – the sheer humiliation - of being bared and summarily dealt with in such a fashion. Long before his ordeal was over he was yelping and kicking, gasping furious objections, and desperately trying to free a hand to shield his red-hot rear from further mistreatment. But his protests were in vain. The firm grip on his wrist didn’t slacken, and the doctor’s brisk tempo never once paused.

“None of that, Holmes,” was his only comment. “That’s not how we do things here.”

It seemed as though it would never end, that Dr Watson’s hand had been tirelessly smacking down on his sore behind for an eternity, but in truth it was only a scant minute more before Sherlock was told he could get up. He staggered to his feet and stood wobbly kneed. The doctor had a few choice words to say on the subject of fighting, but Sherlock didn't  take any of it in. His thoughts were still centred on the enormity of what had just been done to him, and on the hot smarting in his well-thrashed behind. It took him several seconds to realise Dr Watson was waiting for a response.

“Sir?” he said.

“I said, off you go,” Dr Watson said. He nodded towards the raised dais in the corner of the room. “Fifteen minutes to think about what I’ve just said.”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped. He looked at the dais then back at Dr Watson, hardly believing his ears. He wasn’t going to be allowed to return to his seat and recover, he was to stand in front of the class and provide a cautionary example. _And that wasn’t the worst of it_ , Monroe had said. Sherlock cursed himself for not asking Trevor what that had meant. If he had realised this was part of the process, he would have chosen the caning in an instant. But it was too late now. Dr Watson’s expression suggested that argument would not be tolerated. With a sinking feeling he realised that his only alternative to a quarter of an hour on the naughty step, would be a second session over the doctor’s knee, followed by a quarter of an hour on the naughty step. He retreated to the corner of the classroom and stepped onto the dais. It wasn’t very high, but the position felt precarious, horribly exposed.

“Face the wall.” Dr Watson appeared at his elbow and turned him into the corner. It was a relief to hide his face, but the position meant the class had full sight of his rosy-pink thighs. A moment later he realised the doctor intended them to see far more than that. “Lift up your shirt tails.” Numbly Sherlock obeyed, too demoralised to even think of protesting. “Come on, Holmes, higher. It’s nothing they haven’t seen already. Now stay there.”

So there Sherlock stayed, paralysed by shame. His trousers around his knees, his shirt held up around his waist, his tie askew, his crisp white shirt damp and wrinkled and his bright red bottom on display for the benefit of his peers.

“All right,” he heard Dr Watson say, his voice completely matter of fact. “Let’s try to get on without any further silliness, shall we? We’ve got a lot to cover today. Text books open, please. Chapter three. The Krebs cycle.”

The lesson continued in subdued silence, save for the occasional squeak of chalk on blackboard. The boys spoke only when they were called on, and haltingly at that. Sherlock noticed with a grim satisfaction that without him to pick up the slack, more than half of their answers were wrong, but it was small consolation. Undoubtedly, most of their attention was directed towards a different target. He could feel the weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on his throbbing behind and trembled at the indignity of having to expose himself, the evidence of his punishment clear for all to see.

A timid knock interrupted the slow litany of questions and answers. He darted a quick look over his shoulder to see one of the second years standing in the doorway, gawping at his bare backside with a horrified expression, all thoughts of his errand forgotten. Any hopes Sherlock had harboured that news of his predicament might not get out were dashed. He snapped his eyes back to the wall, his face burning even hotter than his behind.

“Yes?” said Dr Watson, going to the door. The second year gabbled an inaudible message and fled. Dr Watson stared after him thoughtfully, then glanced at the clock above the doorway. “All right, Holmes,” he said, “time’s up. Back to your desk.”

Sherlock scrabbled his clothes into place and wobbled to a desk at the back of the classroom, avoiding the eyes of his fellow pupils. His bottom felt swollen to twice its normal size and sitting on the wooden chair made him wince, but at least now he was hidden from view. He opened up his text book and did his best to become invisible.

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur as he brooded. He couldn’t believe Dr Watson had actually spanked him. And so hard. It had stung terribly. And to be stood in the corner, for everyone to see - he’d never felt so ashamed. But as the fire in his backside dulled to an aching throb he became aware of other competing sensations. There was a funny, quivery feeling in the pit of his stomach and an incriminating, swelling heat pushing against his fly. He buried his hot face in his hands, indignant and confused, and only looked up when the bell rang for end of lessons.

“Holmes, stay behind,” said Dr Watson as the boys rose to their feet and began packing their bags. He waited until the class filed from the room then gave Sherlock a level look. “Fighting’s not tolerated here. We told you that on your first day.”

“Monroe started it,” said Sherlock sullenly.

“I know he did. That’s why I sent him to the Head. He was on his final warning. That message just now was to say he won’t be coming back. I thought you’d want to know.”

Sherlock snorted silently. Monroe might be facing expulsion but that was little consolation. He hadn’t been forced spend quarter of an hour on the naughty step, with his shirt around his waist, displaying himself for the benefit of the class.

Dr Watson guessed his thoughts. “I wouldn’t be doing you any favours by giving you special dispensation, you know.”

“No, sir.”

For a moment Dr Watson didn't speak. Sherlock ached to escape to the privacy of the dorms and soothe his fevered flesh as best he could, but he didn’t dare to leave without permission.

Eventually Dr Watson said, “You’re a bright lad, Holmes. Have you thought you might get on better with the other boys if you didn’t always try to be the first to answer every question?”

“I’m not going to pretend I’m stupid!” Sherlock said, stung.

Dr Watson sighed. “Fair enough,” he said. “Up to you. Off you go then. But no more fighting. I don’t expect to have to punish you again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Sherlock, his eyes lowered, every inch the penitent school boy.

Even as he said it, he knew he was lying. He could feel it in the pull of his shirt across his nipples, in the heavy throbbing in his balls, and in the heat which simmered between his thighs. It wasn’t that he wanted to be spanked again, his underwear yanked down around his knees and his bottom slapped until it was hot and stinging. It was more intense than that - a newly wakened hunger that clamoured to be sated. Even with a freshly smacked backside, he could feel the urge building - a hateful, secret craving that would only be satisfied by being put back across Dr Watson’s knee.


End file.
